vicissitude; noun, [vi-sis-i-tood, -tyood]
I’m finding that college is less of a monstrous shock and more of these gradual realizations, like flickering candles put out and illuminated, extinguishing and lighting my thoughts in moments when I am most vulnerable—inside a dingy practice room, splayed on the lawn, along the salad bar line, in the eye of a conversation. Many moments of me simply realizing, I am here, and this is where I’ll be for the next few months, years. I need to buy an umbrella. I want a dracaena to name Kamaji. I’ve got anxiety. I love poetry but I don’t know how to talk about it in a seminar.
The dormitory lounge has this phrase embedded above the fireplace: hold fast to the spirit of youth, let years to come do what they may. It’s good advice with a generous dash of collegiate pride. (As expected).
There’s a storm warning today, some tropical surge, and my little California heart can’t believe it. Like, holy firecrackers, a storm? Winds up to 65mph? Heavy rain? High impact surges? What a world, what a world.